Senses
by mystiri1
Summary: Two related ficlets, Touch and Scent, where Heero and Duo consider their relationship, past and future. Set aboard the Peacemillion towards the end of the series. Yaoi.
1. Touch

_**Warning:** This story contains mention of boy/boy sexual relationships. If this offends you, don't read it._

* * *

**Touch**

I should be sleeping.

Peacemillion is quiet – or at least, as quiet as a large spaceship ever gets, the ambient noise a low background hum of engines and air conditioning. The only light in the room is from the emergency glowstrip about the door, but it's enough. I've been laying here for some time now, and my eyes are quite well-adjusted.

Even in the darkness I can make out the features of the face on the pillow next to me.

It's been a long day, with much fighting. Tomorrow – or rather, today, as the ship's clock says it's now 1.26 a.m. – will be more fighting, but I am now sure that this will be it, the last battle. The one that will win the war.

A strange thought, that by this time tomorrow, it might all be over.

Duo has stolen all the bedcovers again. He's as restless in his sleep as he is when awake, and I've become used to having only a small portion of blanket left to me. I don't mind. I'm not cold. Tonight I have a small corner flipped over my right knee, and that only because one of his legs is pressing against mine.

That contact, and the weight of one hand resting almost possessively on my stomach, is more than enough to keep me warm.

I studied biology and anatomy in my training. It was little surprise to me the effect that adrenaline and near-death experiences would have on more hormones, something J explained to me as the body's natural response to escaping physical danger: on a psychological level, the reaffirmation of life, and on a biological level, the urge to reproduce and ensure survival of the species.

Duo . . . _He_ was the surprise.

I encountered him so early on, and I had no idea what to make of a person who shot me on our first meeting, then rescued me from the enemy and tried to make friends the next. But contradictions seem to be Duo's style, such as it is.

I had a hard time believing that anyone like Duo could be a pilot. I had a mission, and I treated it with the appropriate level of seriousness and focus. His overtures – the cheerful conversation, the casual touches – all seemed inappropriate and irrelevant, so I shrugged them aside. It wasn't until he stopped making those overtures I realised I missed that contact.

I didn't understand it.

Of course, in an effort to understand I proceeded to research it.

I discovered, to my surprise, that humans apparently need physical contact to ensure proper mental and emotional development. This was news to me. J was not exactly the type to hand out hugs and kisses; in fact, the mere thought of it gives me what Duo so eloquently calls the 'heebie-jeebies', a phrase I have looked up and failed to find in any dictionary to date. Odin – I remember him holding my hand as we walked through a busy spaceport, but I think it was more to stop us from becoming separated in the crowd than a sign of affection.

A long time ago, a highly illegal and medically unethical experiment was carried out somewhere in Russia, where a number of babies were raised with all their physical requirements taken care of – food, shelter, warmth, sanitation – but they were not held or spoken to with any affection. Most of them wasted away and died.

It made me wonder. I am still here, still alive, so did somebody hold me back then?

I did acknowledge after that it was possible Duo was correct and my socialisation was somewhat lacking, although not as badly as he is inclined to make out. I also resolved not to repulse any further physical contact from him.

We're two teenage boys, fighting in a war. It shouldn't surprise anybody that when it happened, that contact turned out to be sexual. J tells me that, combined with our still flexible bone structure, and quicker reflexes, the increased levels of hormones are one of the things that make a male of my age ideal as a pilot. More aggression.

I also found that my biology and anatomy lessons did little to prepare me for the reality of sex.

It's very physical, true, but it is more . . . overwhelming than I ever expected. I trained to increase my conscious control over my body and its abilities. Mind over matter, as the saying goes. Finding things suddenly the other way around was somewhat unnerving.

And it made me realise just how powerful something as simple as the touch of another human being can be.

Just under the surface of the skin are thousands of mechanoreceptors, tiny nerves that will transmit pleasure signals to the brain at the lightest of touches. Something simple, like the brush of fingers against a cheek, feels good. This is true of any area on the body, but then there are areas of special sensitivity, the so-called erogenous zones. Some are common, some are unique to a particular person, but the nerves there register touch as not just pleasurable, but a sexual pleasure – one that feels good and at the same time leaves a craving for more.

Knowing this on an intellectual level and feeling it for myself are two very different things.

My training, of course, was more focused on a different outcome. I know that a harder touch, a sudden impact or severe pressure against the same spot, causes a different set of signals to be sent. I know how to cause pain, know which areas are more vulnerable to this kind of attack. Points on the body that can be used to inflict pain without damage, or to incapacitate, even kill. Pleasure wasn't really part of the curriculum.

Perhaps that why I didn't know about the in-between touches. Something firmer than a caress, yet not hard enough to hurt.

Something like the heavy weight of a hand resting against my stomach.

It seems that, given two potential reactions to a stimulus, the body chooses to err on the side of pleasure.

Turning my head, I stare at him in the darkened room. One cheek is flattened slightly against the pillow, his lips parted on a breath, those usually lively eyes closed. The blanket has slipped down to his waist, so I guess Duo is not really cold, either.

It shows another one of those contradictions. Duo's face is slightly rounded, a situation that, combined with his large eyes, give him a particularly youthful look. 'Puppy fat' is how I heard a girl refer to it at one of the schools I attended. Of course, it must be noted that this was in reference to herself, not Duo. It's an expression that makes little sense in Duo's case, because while the face has that additional curve to it, his body does not. There's no trace of fat on the slender body that's peeking out from under the blankets. It's all whipcord and muscle, the slightness the result not so much of youth but of poor nutrition in his earlier years. While his face seems young and innocent, his body is mature and shows all the scars of his past.

Despite having grown up primarily on the streets, Duo shows no sign of having lacked in physical displays of affection.

I have worked with the other pilots since then. Keeping in mind Duo's admonitions about learning to interact with other people in ways that do not involve ignoring or killing them, I have tried to be . . . friendlier. It still feels awkward to me in its unfamiliarity. Trowa was easiest of them, in that he is willing to let a silence rest without attempting to fill it. Quatre was as difficult as Relena, although in slightly different ways. I think it has to do with the way the two of them were brought up, within the confines of wealthy and apparently affectionate families.

As for Wufei – I still haven't made much progress there, but I understand him better than the others. He has a focus to him, a sense of something that he must do at all costs. I wonder if that is how I appeared to Duo when we first met. Because there is something . . . desperate and lonely about it.

It's only Duo that I feel this pull towards, however, a sense of attraction and fascination. I thought it might have something to do with how different our personalities are, but I have seen him draw others towards him with the same apparent ease. As I got to know him better, I wondered if it was, instead, those things we have in common. Lately I have stopped trying to analyse it, and simply accepted that it is Duo, and Duo is not someone who can be understood using logical analysis.

It's strange. Since I began this operation, so many terrible things have happened. I certainly understand the futility of wishing things undone – it is both illogical and impossible. I was taught, however, to analyse the events of any mission afterwards, to recognise those areas where a different action would have brought about a better outcome, and take this onboard so that my next mission would be an improvement.

I have made many mistakes since I fell to Earth. But when I consider what I would do differently, I am left with outcomes and events that I do not wish to change, even if they are not perfect.

Yes, war is terrible, and I firmly believe it must be stopped, that peace is the only acceptable outcome. Yes, I have committed unforgivable acts and have seen such acts committed by others. But there have been good things, too.

There is a phrase Duo uses. It's inelegant, but to the point.

Shit happens.

At first I thought he was being flippant. But in actual fact, it sums up a great deal about how Duo thinks. It shouldn't be surprising that someone who refers to himself as the God of Death has a fatalistic streak. It took me some time to realise what he meant.

Bad things happen. It's not just a fact of war; it's a fact of life. But the only thing to do is keep going, because if you just give up, what's left?

So I'm still fighting, hoping to bring about an end to this war. I've killed people, and will kill more. But I'm not going to give up until it's done, and the end is now in sight.

Which leaves me with a different question to ponder in the dark.

If today is, indeed, the last battle of this war, what then?

So much of my life has been geared towards killing, towards fighting. If there is peace, where will someone like me fit in?

And if the best things in my life came about because of the war, what happens when it's over?

I stare at Duo's face, committing every shadowed curve to memory. How will peace change this?

My . . . connection with Duo is a direct result of this war. We met because of it. We became lovers because of it. When it is over, is there any reason for that connection to continue?

I've come to realise that Duo has places to go when it's over. The Sweepers have been clear that they wouldn't mind his mechanical and piloting skills, and Howard seems to feel somewhat affectionate towards him. Then there's Hilde – I know Duo spent time with her on L2 at her family's salvage yard, and I think, from what I have seen of her actions, she would happily welcome him back.

Of course, all this could be irrelevant. There is still a battle to come, even if it is the last. A battle we might not, either of us, survive. This kind of pointless speculation is simply wasting time that might be more productively used in resting so as to be at an optimum performance level. I turn away from him, and deliberately close my eyes, letting my breathing fall into an even, relaxed pattern.

Duo shifts next to me. The leg that presses against mine slides over the top, tangling them together, along with the accompanying blanket. He presses closer, his warm breath now ghosting across my shoulder, and the hand that rests upon my stomach moves up to lay against my chest.

It causes an odd, fluttering sensation, as if the steady, regular beat of my heart has somehow faltered. I wonder if he can feel it, as his hand now lies directly over the organ in question.

Yes, such a simple touch is a powerful thing.

His hand isn't heavy, but I'm acutely aware of its presence. A touch that is aimed at neither pleasure or pain, it just is. It feels . . . pleasant. Warm. Oddly, it is not just the place that he is touching feeling that warmth; instead it seems to spread throughout my body, relaxing muscles I didn't even realise were tense.

Feeling oddly reassured, I drift off into sleep.


	2. Scent

_**Warning:** This story contains mention of male/male sexual relationships. If this offends you, don't read it._

Sequel to Touch. Set the morning after.

* * *

**Scent**

It's the scent of gun oil that wakes me.

As the slightly sharp, metallic smell seeps into my consciousness, I realise I've been hearing small sounds for awhile. Not the familiar background hum of a working spaceship, but the sounds of movement nearby.

Once I never would have slept through any such sound, however small and inconspicuous. It would have been too dangerous, a sign that someone – a potential threat – was too close. But the scent of gun oil is a comforting one, and it speaks to me of safety.

An odd reaction to something used to clean and maintain weapons, but the scent of gun oil also means something else, too.

Heero.

I smile into the pillow. Heero is cleaning his gun.

That's how I know it's safe. Not only is Heero there, the source of movement and so potentially deadly to any and all threats, he only cleans his gun when he is certain everything is secure. I don't mean to imply that he doesn't do it often, or anything, but it means that for now, he isn't expecting attacks or interruptions.

I also know that, in spite of the fact he can re-assemble his weapon so fast you'd swear it flew together by itself, his 'spare' will be sitting on the table beside him, just in case.

I think I read somewhere, or maybe it was one of those random documentaries you get on TV, that scent is one of the most powerful triggers to memory. A single smell can trigger mental and emotional responses on a level below that of the conscious thought, the body remembering what even the mind cannot. It's not logical, because you may not even be aware of it. It's something instinctual, something that reminds us humans are animals too.

It's certainly true that the smell of certain types of smoke can send me back in my own head, to a time and place where I'm looking at the rubble of a ruined church, still smouldering in the aftermath of an attack. So that once again, part of me is a small, desperate child wondering why: why did it happen, why was I too late, why didn't I die too? Only certain types of smoke, but its one I encounter a lot on the battlefield. There's no smell quite like a burning building: a mixture of wood, metal, scorched concrete and melted synthetics, and if you're unlucky, a sickly sweet smell that doesn't bear too much thinking about. Fortunately for the sake of my missions, that small child is just one part of my messed up little psyche, and that smell is enough to spur Shinigami on to greater heights of destruction. I'd like to think my inner child is made happier by large doses of enemy ass-kicking. It certainly does wonders for the rest of me.

Gun oil is just one of the scents of Heero, though. Gun oil and gunpowder and sweat, the petroleum jelly we use to lubricate certain parts on our Gundams (also useful for other things in a pinch, too, if you were wondering) and blood.

Gunpowder because of how we met, of course. It's silly, because I'd certainly fired a gun before then. Many times, in training. Meeting Heero was the first time I ever shot someone, though, all up close and personal. And it was harder than I thought.

Sure, at the time I thought I was doing the right thing. He was pointing a gun at a girl – an unarmed one, at that, and I was rescuing said damsel in distress. Only Relena didn't have the sense to be distressed, and there was something about the look in Heero's eyes . . .

Maybe I was willing to risk my life to kick Alliance butt, but I figured if it happened, I was taking a bunch of them with me. Heero seemed willing to sacrifice his all too easily for much less.

It's a look I haven't seen recently.

It bothered me. Even before I figured out that, oh shit, I'd just shot another Gundam pilot, and dammit, why didn't G _warn_ me (I was never really sure what I thought G should have warned me about, just that it was somehow all that crazy old man's fault) it bothered me how willing he was to die. My life has sucked, in some very major ways. I came close to dying numerous times, and wondered more than once why I survived. But I did survive, and part of me clung very stubbornly to that fact, even when I hated it.

I'm Duo Maxwell, and I'm a survivor.

I wasn't terribly surprised when he finally pushed that self-destruct button.

Thinking about that always manages to depress me. Looking back, I can't have been easy for Quatre to deal with, especially as he has that whole empathic thing going. But that seems so very far away right now. The flat metallic taste of cool, recycled air is a far cry from the hot winds of the desert.

And I can still smell the oil Heero is cleaning his gun with.

There are other scents, a lot closer. The smell of sweat and sex. And just the faintest hint of gunpowder, which seems to linger about Heero no matter how many times he showers.

I inhale surreptitiously, knowing Heero pays attention to any sound and not wanting him to get up just yet. Lying in bed, doing nothing – just being lazy - is not really a concept he understands.

He has changed a lot since that first meeting, though. The fact that we're lovers, for one. I remember how many times, how very firmly he pushed me away, and I'm still not sure quite where it changed. Because it had to be before we ended up in bed together; Heero is not one for that kind of impulse. If it could affect the mission, then proper consideration is needed.

It did affect the mission, and I'm glad of it. I like the idea that my lover would hesitate to press the self-destruct button again without a damned good reason first. If only because Shinigami would hunt him down in the afterlife and kick his sorry dead ass.

Which isn't to say the next battle might not kill us, anyway.

There's another scent on the pillow – the apple smell of the conditioner I use on my hair. I'm not fussy about such things, as conditioner of whatever brand is a necessity when your hair is as long as mine, but I like this one now that I've tasted what a real, fresh apple is like. Funny, that's another Heero-memory, too.

I'd been bitching about the fact that I was bored, and hungry, and out of junk food. Heero tossed me an apple to shut me up. It was a glossy mixture of red and green, firm and not at all withered. I can still remember that first bite: crisp, and sweet and juicy. It was completely unlike anything I'd had before: the few times I got the fruit on a colony, they'd been old, floury and rather tasteless. I was used to cafeteria slop and junk food, the latter more because it was portable and kept well than for any great liking for it.

I devoured the apple, and looked up to find Heero watching me, with an intent expression in his eyes I couldn't decipher. He immediately went back to work on his laptop, and it was only later that I realised Heero didn't carry snacks. Not even of the fresh and healthy variety.

We've both changed so much since that first meeting. I don't feel like I have to pretend, around Heero: he takes whatever mood I'm in with the same watchful attention. It's not so much acceptance as I think I don't make that much sense to him anyway. I wonder if a part of him is still trying to logically figure out my actions and motivations. If so, good luck to him, and he can feel free to share the results with me.

And Heero – he acts like he has a purpose, now, not just a mission. A strange distinction, maybe, but one that makes me think he intends to survive all this, and that's fine with me. Not too long ago I accused him of being crazy, but in reality, he seems saner than ever. There's something about him that's no longer just determined but somehow calm. As if he's made peace with whatever demons lurk inside him. There's something curiously attractive about that, something that makes me want it for myself. For the first time in a very long time, I find myself wondering about more than the immediate future. I'm a survivor, true, but there's more to living than just that.

Has Heero thought about it? What he'll do after the war? Everybody's been talking the last few days how this is it, it's nearly over. I know that whatever I do, I want to keep the one good thing that has happened to me in this war, even if it's only as a memory.

I inhale again, a deep breath that is more of a sigh. The sound of movement stops, and I open my eyes to find Heero has turned in his seat, and is watching me.

"It's 5:18 am," he says, watching me with that same intent look I still can't decipher. I like it, though. "If you want to get your hair washed and dried before we head down to the hangar bays, you'll need to shower now."

I sit up and stretch, feeling his eyes still on me. So maybe I arched my back a little more than necessary, and held it for a few extra moments. When I lower my arms, I look at where his guns sits, fully assembled on the table. "You're finished?"

He nods.

"Then maybe you could give me a hand," I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and flicking the sheet back. I rummage around in the bare little footlocker that's serving for personal storage, and tug out a towel, some soap, and the shampoo and conditioner. "It'll go faster, that way."

Okay, from the look he's giving me, Heero has definitely figured out my motivations on _that_ one. But he nods, and follows me into the tiny bathroom.

We'll be fighting soon enough. But for now, I get to enjoy the smells of gun oil and apple-scented conditioner.


End file.
